


feel enough

by soberingmuses



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, F/M, Hamilton dies, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, angst???, but not both at once, eliza dies, i guess, is it even qualified to be called that, why did I write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 03:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12245871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soberingmuses/pseuds/soberingmuses
Summary: small tumblr ficlet on hamilton and eliza's death





	feel enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashesinruins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashesinruins/gifts), [ravenclaw_andhufflepuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenclaw_andhufflepuff/gifts).



> hello! i'd just like to say that writing at 1.30am doesn't yield good results please don't do it this was written only because i live and breathe hamliza and pain. which isn't good. sorry for the quality drop at the end it's a lil cheesy for me please bear with me
> 
> rant to @ashesandruins about this because she asked me to do this
> 
> thanks for reading this!! please feedback it would be appreciated :DD

She’s at home playing with little Liza when it happens.

She hears loud frantic knocking from the front door downstairs, the frazzled voice of the next-door neighbours ringing through her ears. All of them are shouting incoherently, and she can only make out the words shot and husband, and her blood instantly turns to ice and she hears blood rushing violently in her ears.

“Lizzie, can you play with your toys for a little while? Momma has to go downstairs,” she says, a little rushed, fighting to keep a steady voice.

Toddler Eliza smiles happily, and nods vigorously as she watches her mother leave the room while blowing a kiss at her with a gentle smile.

As soon as she is out of little Eliza’s sight, her grin drops and she rushes down the winding stairs hurriedly, running as fast as she can to the front door.

When she opens the door, she almost faints in shock and actually falters a bit, her hand gripping the doorknob so tightly her knuckles turn stark white.

There, lying limply in someone’s arms, was Alexander.

Her Alexander, with a gashing wound between his ribs, blood blossoming in his dark shirt; she can tell right away that it’s a bullet wound. His usually bright brown eyes, God help her, are dazed and unfocused; his eyelids are opening and closing rapidly, and all she can feel in that moment is her heart hammering furiously against her chest, and she hears someone screaming.

(She’ll later learn it was her)

“Get him to the couch over there, now,” she says flatly, and the men outside her door scurry in and place Alex on the living room couch, blood still streaming from his chest.

“Mr Hamilton was shot at a duel in Weehawken,” one of the neighbours informs her bluntly - they know she’s a force to be reckoned with, but now they don’t see the point of lying to her. She nods, mutely.

The unspoken words hang heavily in the air - the men are too afraid to tell her the words that will most likely break her, but they can tell she already knows.

Her husband is running out of time.

She immediately rushes over to him, and she suddenly feels so emotionally drained she doesn’t even bother hiding the truth from Alex anymore, and she sits next to him on the floor and caresses his body, whispering in his ear while trying to console herself.

“Shh, it’ll be over soon, just hang on for a while more,” she shushes him, running her fingers through his sweat-soaked hair and her heart tightens even more. She hears his ragged breaths coming from his lungs, his labored breathing getting more irregular and frantic by the minute.

Suddenly, his eyes focus on her, and he says, “I don’t want it to be over soon,” leaving Eliza in mild confusion - and then she feels like she understands; Alex has a legacy he wants to leave, he wants to continue writing his essays, John Adams be damned, and he wants to contribute enough so he’ll be remembered by the nation he helped to build.

“I know, Alexander, but we don't need a legacy,” she starts, but immediately stops when Alex meekly holds a finger up, motioning her to stop.

“No, no, it's not that,” he whispers drily, roughly.

“I just… wanna stay by your side, you know? I can’t bear not being with you for even a second,” he manages to sputter out feebly and bitterly.

“But I think what I did was right,” he continues, grasping her hand, “I can't bear living with the guilt of murdering someone.”

And then all Eliza can see is her vision blurring so very quickly, the flushed face in front of her a fogged view and his eyes a muddy brown, and she can barely catch tears cascading down his rosy cheeks through her own unshed tears.

With glistening eyes, Eliza puts her arms around Alex, and even though it’s an awkward position to be in, she doesn’t care - she buries herself in his neck, hot tears staining his shirt.

“I don’t want to leave you either,” she mutters, loud enough for only Alex to hear.

She indistinctly hears little footfalls and they’re getting closer, and she desperately hopes that those footsteps don’t belong to the children. In that same moment, following the high-pitched, innocent voices that ring out, said glimmer of hope fizzles out and dies.

“Papa!” she hears Will call out, and she hears what must be Lizzie let out a gasp, and then they rush over to their parents.

Suddenly everything rushes by in a blur - all she remembers is her eight children - seven, she corrects herself painfully - running down the stairs two at a time openly crying their eyes out. Even little Philip, who hasn't completely grasped the concept of death yet could sense the grief that his siblings and parents were feeling.

She remembers Alex hugging each and every one of their children, whispering indistinct words in their ears even as he struggled to breathe.

She hears his breathing get more labored and irregular as time ticks away, a constant reminder that she doesn’t have much time with him.

She sees his eyes dart around the room, looking for something, someone, until his eyes finally find her dark ones.

And his eyes were so calm, the usual storm gone from his irises and replaced with complete tranquility. He holds her hand, and she leans in, hears him whisper sweet nothings to her, and her frazzled “I love you”’s falling from her lips.

She hears him suck in a deep breath, sees his chest rise again and deflate, his eyelids drooping and finally closing.

He doesn’t take another breath after.

She hears an anguished scream, something fall to the ground with a loud crash, and a young child yelling for help as her vision blacks out.

\--

She’s lying down, and she feels at ease, knowing the orphanage’s doing well and is in good hands.

Her hands - they seemed very wrinkled with age - reaches towards her neck, touching her locket nestled there on her chest. Gingerly, she opens the locket and takes out the tattered and fragmented sonnet, paper yellowed after so many decades. She takes in the words, smiles to herself at the thought of her Alexander.

“That looks ancient,” her namesake says softly. She smiles at her second daughter and returns to the sonnet. She finishes it, sighs, and folds it back into the small locket with a picture of her and Alexander a few months into their marriage.

She takes in a sharp breath, and all of a sudden she sees her Hamilton standing at the bedroom door, grinning a boyish grin. His clothes were from when they were courting, his hair a dark red colour and his sparkling blue eyes looking at hers.

She’s confused when she looks down at herself, with a small waistline and her hair falling in luscious locks around her, no grey strand in sight. She feels youthful again, and her heart feels whole just by seeing him.

His arms, outstretched. She instantly launches into his arms, nestling her head against his chest, and melts into his embrace.

“It’s been too long, Betsey,” he murmurs against her hair, tilting her chin up and their eyes meet again, the devotion shining in his eyes.

“Fifty years,” she whispers back.

Their lips crash together, and she feels herself bursting with joy and relief, feels the hunger in her bones, and she finally feels that this would be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> yell at me on tumblr @ soberingmuses
> 
> if you like to reblog on tumblr (thank you!) please do so [here.](https://soberingmuses.tumblr.com/post/165905134015/feel-enough)


End file.
